


Release

by Evandar



Series: Daily Deviant Fics [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Don't copy to another site, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Sex Toys, Size Kink, Sounding, automasochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 07:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20578835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: Regulus has his own way to relax.





	Release

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the August Daily_Deviant prompt 'automasochism'
> 
> Don't ask how Regulus ended up with mild OCD and trust issues when all I did was write him having a wank.

He closes the door behind him and leans back against it, resting heavily for a moment against the cold wood. Dinner, as always, was interminable: Sirius and their mother incapable of sitting quietly in the same room without comment, and their father as absent and neglectful as he has always been. It had stretched on, well-beyond a reasonable amount of time as Sirius and Mother escalated their sniping and bickering – and, honestly, Regulus knows that his brother is plotting _something_. He just wishes sometimes that Sirius would get on and _do it_, hang the consequences, if only so Regulus is able to have a moment’s peace at the bloody dinner table.

He tilts his head back and listens as his brother stomps his way into his room. He listens as the door slams, and he feels Sirius’ privacy wards rise like a fizzing in his blood. Then, and only then, does he let himself raise his own; does he let himself relax.

He removes his outer robe and hangs it neatly; unfastens his tie and his weskit, folding them before placing them in the laundry basket. He crosses to his bedside table and removes the false bottom to the top drawer, sets out his toys for the evening. As he arranges them side by side on the coverlet, each a finger-width apart, he feels weight begin to lift from his shoulders. 

It’s been a long day. A long summer. He _deserves_ this.

He exhales slowly, and slips his wand from up his sleeve. He silences the mirror – his habits are his own, thank you, and he does _not_ want commentary – and places it next to his pillow. He won’t need it again until he’s done.

He finishes undressing with unhurried movements, folding each garment carefully as always. Anticipation lifts the hairs on the back of his neck and makes his hands tremble, but he refuses to rush. _He_ has _patience_. _He_ is capable of not rushing headlong into things. _He_ is aware that some things are worth the wait. All the same, by the time he’s finished undressing, his breath is coming in short pants and his cock is plumping between his thighs. He doesn’t touch it. He ignores it, and instead focuses on pulling deeper breaths into his lungs, slowing his heart.

He is excited, yes, but there’s no point in getting ahead of himself. With the privacy wards raised and the typical disaster that was dinner behind them, his relatives will have all fled to embrace their preferred solitude. There is nothing to interrupt him.

He watches in the mirror as he lifts his hand to his chest. Watches as he flattens his palm over his sternum to feel the steady beating of his own heart. He can remember, once or twice as a child, holding his mouth open next to the glass so that he could hear it – he supposes that he’s always liked a reminder that he has a heart at all. He lingers only for a moment, waiting for his pulse to steady before he begins to touch himself in earnest. He plucks at his nipples, watches them bloom red under his fingertips as he pulls and twists so that they stand erect. Then, without taking his eyes from his reflection, he reaches out to pick up the clamps.

He has chosen his favourite set for the evening. They aren’t overly aesthetically pleasing, featuring large, interlocking joints, but they deliver his preferred amount of pressure. The weight of them helps, and the heavy chain that links them makes it easier for him to tug them. He opens the first clamp with one hand and, with the other, stretches out his left nipple as far as it will go, clamping the base of his areola. Sudden pain flares in his chest and he draws in a sharp breath in response. He exhales slowly, shuddering, and his cock twitches against his thigh. He breathes through it as his nipple begins to throb from the pressure, and quickly moves to clamp the second. More pain, just as exquisite.

He groans. He runs his fingers along the chain that stretches across his chest and he gives it a gentle, experimental tug. The clamps stay in place; his abused nipples twinge pleasantly. He smiles.

In the mirror, he can see he looks debauched already. His nipples are dark and there’s a red flush spreading out across his chest; his cock stands proud from its nest of curls. Gooseflesh rises on his arms, prickles the back of his neck. It’s his favourite part of doing this at home: at school, hidden behind the warded curtains of his dormitory bed, he has no real way to see himself like this. Here, he can’t look away. 

He reaches down and lifts his next toy from the bed. The cage looks far crueller than it is: all fine leather straps and metal fixings. He grasps his cock and struggles against the urge to stroke himself. There’s an awful little part of him that wants to come fast and hard all over himself, but Regulus knows from experience that he’ll regret it if he gives in. The pain is the best part; it makes the pleasure so much sweeter. He _knows_ that, and yet the urge is still there. He shoves it away, takes deep breaths and fixes the cage in place. Rings of metal around his cock, linked by the leather, and a strap that winds behind his balls; there’s a sound that he pushes slowly into his slit – his toes curling into the soft pile of his bedside rug as he does – and, once it’s in place, a chain that links it to the one already stretched across his chest. It’s a little bit short. It pulls. It feels so, so good.

Once he’s secure, he can’t quite help the moan that spills from between his lips. He feels…calm, now. The tension that itches under his skin is starting to fade. His mind is pleasantly quiet; his thoughts focused only on the ritual of what he is about to do, and the pleasure it will bring him. He is relaxed in a way that he hasn’t felt for weeks, and he sways as he stands there, basking in the glory of it. 

There are three more toys laid out on his bed, and next to them, a bottle of lubricant. He looks down at them with heavy-lidded eyes. He feels his arse clench with anticipation at the sight of the dildo and he considers, for a moment, leaving it entirely until last. He glances towards the flail with its knotted strips of leather and bites his lip. His hand moves without his realising, and before he’s fully aware of it, he’s trailing his fingers along thick, black silicone. It’s a Muggle device – most of the things he uses are, bought in the rare moments he can slip away from prying eyes – and it’s longer and thicker than any human cock could be. It’s _heavy_ too, and as he curls his fingers around the base he can feel his mouth water.

He has fantasies, sometimes, of being able to trust someone enough to do this to him. To have a living person clamp him and stretch him; to be nothing more than a toy for someone while his brain calms and his body sings, and to have them take him into their arms afterwards to soothe him and pet his hair. They’re nonsensical thoughts. Impossible dreams that he knows are far beyond him. He is a Black – a true Black – and trust is not in his nature, no matter how much he sometimes wishes it would be.

Still. It would be nice to feel warm flesh instead of this cool, Muggle-made substance.

His decision is made, though, and he suctions the base of the dildo to one of the floorboards. It bobs obscenely; shifts and sways under his touch as he coats it with lubricant. When he’s done, when it’s near-dripping, he places the lubricant back in its place on the bed. He picks up the flail, and, carefully, moves to position himself over the dildo. He straddles it, reaches down to position its blunt head at his entrance. His hole twitches instinctively, and a smile curls his lip. He has trained himself to take this; he no longer needs gradual stretches to relax himself. His body knows what it needs – what he _craves_. 

He doesn’t sink onto it. Oh, he _wants_ to. He wants to be full. But he has time to take advantage of, and a flail in his hands that demands use.

He ignores the building ache in his thighs and the yearning to sink down onto the dildo and satisfy himself. He raises the flail instead, swinging its braided, knotted cords, and bringing them down on his upper back hard enough to hurt. Even though he knows that it’s coming, his body still lurches with the impact. The tip of the dildo presses into him as his body jerks, and the stretch of it at his entrance, the flare of pain across his back and shoulders, the tugging at his nipples as the movements of his caged cock pull at the chain linking them – it’s exquisite. He gasps, crying out, and before the sensation can start to fade, he whips himself again.

Again.

Again.

With each strike, he sinks lower and lower onto the dildo until he’s taking all of it. His legs are quivering with the strain, and when he looks at his reflection through tear-soaked lashes he can see the bulge it makes in his lower abdomen. He’s so full that he can hardly breathe from it, but he doesn’t give himself time to adjust as he raises his flail once more.

His back feels raw. He’s not hitting himself _hard_ \- not hard enough to cause permanent damage, at least – but he wants to be able to feel this. He wants to be able to feel it for days; every scratch of his starched undershirts against his tender flesh will be a reminder of this, a reminder of how _good_ he can feel.

His mind strays to his last toy, still on his bed, and he whimpers instinctively.

He will have so many reminders.

He rises slowly, watching the bulge shift and lessen as the dildo slides from his body. He doesn’t lift entirely off it; he pauses at the top, his hole stretched around the silicone corona. He feels bereft without it, too empty, and when he allows himself to sink back down all he can feel is relief. 

He takes two more lashes for the sheer enjoyment of it, before he sets his flail aside and leans back on his hands. The arching of his back hurts so _wonderfully_, and he feels tears slip from his eyes to soak into the hair at his temples as he tilts his head back and begins to move. He sets a steady pace, rising and falling, fucking himself on his dildo. His aching cock bobs and sways with every movement, slapping against his belly and dragging at the chain of his nipple clamps. With his cock caged like it is, he won’t find release, but that doesn’t mean he can’t chase it. And he does: he moves faster, bringing his body down harder until he’s sobbing from the need for it. He raises his head to look at him again, meets his own wild gaze in the mirror, and keens softly at the sight of himself.

Leaning back the way he is, he can see where the dildo vanishes into his body. He can see how stretched out he is. How open. How ready he is for more. He rises slowly, watching as the black plastic slides into view. He lifts off it entirely just to see his entrance flutter and clench at the loss.

His cock _throbs_. It’s an angry red, purpling at the tip. He balances on one shaking arm so that he can touch it – feel the heat of it against his fingers. He hisses at the gentle touch, arching instinctively even as he denies himself more friction. The head of the dildo shifts, nudging insistently at his inner thigh, and Regulus mewls softly as he moves so that it pushes into him once more. He slides his hand between his cock and his belly as he lowers himself down on trembling thighs, his eyes widening as he feels the dildo sinking into him. He presses down just to feel more of it, his mouth open in a silent scream. He’s so, so _full_.

He reaches down with scrabbling fingers. He unfastens straps and buckles and guides the sound out of his prick as quickly as he dares. He leaves the cage hanging from its chain, the weight yanking at his nipples as the cage slips over his hips and dangles in mid-air. His hips jerk, but he remains seated; keeps himself stretched full. He wraps his hand around his newly freed cock and begins to stroke. It doesn’t take much – just two passes with his hand before he’s spilling all over himself, his vision turning grey at the edges as hot white streaks spatter over his chest and belly. It’s so much; too much. He throws his head back, toes curling and back arching; his hole clamping down on the toy still stretching him open. 

When he comes back to himself, the world is quiet. His brain is calm, pleasantly blank. His body aches and twinges, and he straightens. He lifts himself slowly from the dildo, his arse grasping and clenching as it slips free. The sudden emptiness is so uncomfortable that a whine, unbidden, rises in his throat. He ignores it. He lifts his hand to unclamp his nipples and the rush of sensation as they’re freed makes his cock twitch against his thigh. Unable to stop himself, he giggles.

He feels light. He feels so light that he could float away. He stands and staggers, weak as a kitten, and doesn’t so much reach his bed as he does flop onto it, belly first, uncaring of the mess he’s making. He’s soaked with sweat and come, and between his thighs he’s slick with lube and far, far too empty. He needs, he needs – 

His fingers wrap around his final toy. It’s new, untested, and he’s been entirely too eager to try it ever since he spotted it for the first time in that seedy Muggle shop. It’s made of the same black silicone as the dildo, and even though it’s not quite as long, the base of the plug is easily twice as thick. 

He thinks absently of how stretched out he’d been around the dildo. About how he’d looked when he’d taken it, with his belly bulging and his rim gaping. He feels his body clench in anticipation of more; feels his sensitive cock twitch again beneath him. He smiles lazily as he parts his legs and he twists himself so that he can look over his shoulder as he positions the plug at his entrance.

If his reflection is anything to go by, he looks wrecked. Exhausted. Obscene, lying on his front with his legs apart and his arse gaping as he pushes another toy into himself. He can see the flaring red of his back – the dark red lines left by his flail; little cuts too small to have bled properly striping his pale skin. He moans, wanton, and pushes the plug inside. His toes curl. He’s panting before it’s fully seated; tears escaping and soaking into the coverlet as he bows his head and shakes from the pressure of its intrusion.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let himself stop. He _wants_ this.

He feels, when its done, complete.


End file.
